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  “Yes.”

  Chip glanced at his laptop screen, numbers on the NSA site scrolling up so fast they were nothing more than a blur, with pauses every now and then before the search continued.

  “What now?” he asked.

  Ben glanced at his watch. It was just four-thirty. “We’ll find a place to hunker down until you get a hit.”

  “Okay, where?”

  “Brighton Beach,” Ben said. “But first give me the pistol.”

  TWELVE

  RESCUE

  96

  Treadwell got home to his elegant old-world co-op on the Upper East Side a little after seven, in plenty of time to dress for this year’s Met Gala, the theme of which was the Roaring Twenties. He loved high society parties, although putting on stupid-looking period garb was beneath his dignity. Still, he had a lot more on his mind then trying to argue with Bernice about dressing in a costume. In any event, she would already have laid out what he was to wear.

  He’d brought Duke Lawson, one of Hardy’s people, along for security this evening, and he intended to take the large, muscular man to the gala, though something like that was never done.

  But with Whalen storming the gates this afternoon and still out there at large, plus the Russian hoods here in the city and the ones out in Brighton Beach, he didn’t feel safe. He even carried his father’s .45 in a holster beneath his jacket.

  The doorman greeted Treadwell with his usual polite enthusiasm but didn’t acknowledge the larger man, who would remain in the lobby. Bernice would never have permitted someone like him to come upstairs to their two-story digs.

  “I’ll be down in a couple of minutes,” Treadwell told his security man, who merely nodded and stepped aside.

  Upstairs, Bernice, already changed into a designer short silk flapper dress with a fringe above her knees, white gloves to her elbows, and a headband with a feather in front, was waiting for him.

  She had been a spoiled, overbearing rich girl from the beginning, but Treadwell had to admit she was an attractive woman. Always had been.

  “You look like your best friend, if you ever had one, just died,” she said.

  “The market went to hell today,” he said, walking past her into their exquisitely furnished apartment. A large oil painting of Bernice’s late father, Thatcher Pike—in his day the stuffiest son of a bitch on Wall Street—stared down at him in disapproval.

  “Isn’t it always going to hell?”

  “No,” Treadwell said, taking off his tie and heading back to his bedroom wing.

  Bernice was right behind him. “Considering who’s on the guest list, I want you to be your usual charming self. I simply won’t put up with any nonsense from you.”

  Treadwell stopped and turned back to her. “What are you talking about?”

  “For starts, the bimbo you had lunch with today, and no doubt bedded afterwards, will be there, though how someone like her could ever be invited in the first place or come up with the thirty grand admission donation is beyond me.”

  Not good, Treadwell thought.

  “Frankly I don’t care what you do with your spare time, Reid, just don’t embarrass me in front of my friends.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And make sure that if any of your other dreary friends—like Dammerman, who I saw manhandling one of your female employees in a Facebook video—show up, they stay away from us. People like him can’t be good for the firm.”

  “Neither would BP taking a beating if another ’08 or even ’29 comes along,” Treadwell said. “Right now I have so much on my plate keeping the firm safe that I can’t be bothered with some domestic dispute.”

  Bernice gestured him away. “I don’t want to be late. Get dressed,” she said, and walked away.

  She’d never objected to his flings before, as long as they never went public. In any event she had her own personal trainer, a handsome male model half her age, who came over once a week. But Heather at the gala was more than disturbing, especially right now with everything else that was happening.

  * * *

  His costume of striped trousers, bow tie, two-toned shoes, a straw boater, and white gloves had been laid out for him, and when he got dressed he met Bernice at the elevator, and she nodded her approval.

  But downstairs when she spotted Lawson standing to one side she pulled up short. “Is he really necessary?” she demanded.

  “Yes, but he’ll stay out of the way.”

  “He’d better.”

  They’d come over from BP in the Maybach, Lawson driving, and he took them to the Met, opening the car door for his boss first.

  “Stay close,” Treadwell said softly.

  “Will do,” Lawson said.

  Treadwell handed Bernice out of the car, and they followed the growing crowd up the sweep of the stairs into the neoclassical museum’s Great Hall, stopping every few steps to exchange handshakes and air kisses.

  Inside, as they went through the receiving line, Treadwell automatically switched on what the press once dubbed his JFK mode, delivering handshakes, smiles, and pleasant commentary about the weather, the market, the situation in China, even the upcoming elections, which was the easiest because, except for a handful of Hollywood celebrities, just about everyone here this evening was a multimillionaire—or even billionaire—Republican.

  Stephen Schwarzman, head of one of Wall Street’s most powerful buyout firms and longtime adversary of Treadwell’s, came over, smiling as Bernice drifted off with friends. “So, Reid, rumor is that you’re taking the firm to all cash. Any truth to it?”

  “If there was, I wouldn’t tell someone like you.”

  Both men laughed, and Treadwell looked to his left as Schwarzman moved off.

  Heather was across the room, standing by herself, a glass of champagne in her hand. She was wearing her revealing red dress and spike heels, and she stood out from everyone else in the room.

  Treadwell called Lawson on his cell phone. “I’m going to need you to take care of something for me,” he said in a lowered voice.

  “Should I bring the car around?”

  “No,” Treadwell said. “Just stand by.”

  He broke the connection, and as he pocketed his phone, he happened to glance to the left in time to see Betty Ladd, martini glass raised to her lips, staring at him. She was dressed like Zelda Fitzgerald and wearing a cloche hat. She looked smug to him, even from across the room.

  97

  Betty’s phone buzzed. It was Julia O’Connell, who sounded as if she was crying.

  “We need to talk, because I can’t take this any longer,” she said.

  “Okay, Julia, calm down and tell me what’s going on.”

  “Cassy’s been kidnapped, and I think they want her killed.”

  “Jesus, who did this?”

  “Reid and Clyde Dammerman,” she sobbed, and then the rest all came out in a rush. “It’s Abacus, and Cassy figured out an antidote, and they can’t let her use it. And I was a part of it. And I’m so sorry, but I don’t know what to do. I don’t…”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying. First, where are you right now? Are you someplace safe?”

  “I’m at home, I’m okay.”

  “Just stay there,” Betty said as she moved off to the side. “Now tell me what’s going on. Everything. Starting with Abacus.”

  “It’s a virus that Reid and Dammerman want to use. If the virus is introduced into our system, it will crash your computers.”

  “What do you mean ‘your computers’?”

  “The New York Stock Exchange. They want to bring down as many trading systems around the world as they can.”

  “Our backup computer would switch on.”

  “I don’t know about that. All I know is that they’ll blame the virus on terrorists. Russian hackers or someone.”

  “I saw Spencer Nast with Reid and Dammerman on the floor. Is he a part of it?”

  “Yes,” Julia said. “And so was I.”

  “M
y God.”

  “I didn’t know what I was doing. Or I never thought it out. But Abacus started as a theoretical design of mine. I wanted to see if something like that could be done. I even sent it over to some people in Amsterdam who fine-tuned it for me. Made it hackerproof.”

  “Why didn’t you back out when you knew what they were really up to?”

  “I’ve asked myself that very question a million times. At first it was just a fun thing, you know, like taking down the power when I was in college. And then Reid promised that I would be rich. I could retire, or open my own company.”

  “That’s why Reid took the bank to cash. Probably even made some trades in the Caribbean to short the S&P.”

  “I don’t know about that part, except that they kept talking about the debt bomb, which was going to explode anyway, and they were just going to help it along. It would be worse than the thirties, except we’d save our bank. We’d be on top of the world.”

  “If I call the FBI, would you be willing to tell them the same thing you’ve told me? Even if it means you might have to go to prison?”

  “Yes. I’ll do anything I can to help.”

  “Then stay where you are. I’ll take it from here.”

  Julia started to cry again. “I don’t know what to say. How to thank you.”

  “Try to get some sleep; tomorrow is going to be a very long day.”

  “Okay,” Julia said and she hung up.

  Betty put the phone in her purse and spotted Reid and his wife talking to someone across the room, then she spotted Heather Rockingham alone and threaded her way across to her.

  She’d picked up the girl at her hotel and got her into the gala using one of the complimentary tickets that were given each year to the NYSE. Once she and Heather had arrived, they’d separated to give Treadwell the false impression that they weren’t here to gang up on him.

  Heather turned when Betty got to her. “Is it time?” she asked.

  “Yes, we need him to make an admission, so let’s rattle his cage a little and see what happens.”

  “Great.”

  “Take this and put it in your clutch,” Betty said, holding out her hand.

  Heather shook hands and took the device about the size of a book of matches that Betty had palmed, then turned and walked away.

  98

  Bernice had hauled Treadwell away to meet some fashion designer friends of hers when Heather showed up.

  “So this is the wife,” she said, raising her voice enough so that everyone nearby could hear her.

  Bernice turned and smiled. “Yes, this is the wife,” she said. “But I don’t think I have to guess who you are. The current slut my husband is fucking?”

  “I can see why he came to me and didn’t stick it out with you,” Heather said. “But I just wanted to share with you and your friends the scheme that dear Reid is about to spring on us all. It’s a computer virus or something which is supposed to sabotage just about every stock exchange on the planet. But he’s smart, and he and his pals will make some big bucks if no one blows the whistle in time.”

  Reid had stepped back a pace and called someone on his cell phone.

  Bernice laughed out loud. “It’s always been amusing to me to hear the fantastical stories that my husband spins in his little love nest. But this is one of the better tales.”

  The people around them didn’t know what to say, but they were sticking around to hear how it all turned out. This was part of the gala’s drama.

  “I think you all may want to give your brokers a call,” Heather said. “Like before opening bell.”

  Lawson suddenly appeared and took Heather by the arm. “Miss, your car is waiting,” he said, and he hustled her kicking and screaming out of the Great Hall. He was a powerful man, twice her size.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” Treadwell said, nodding to his wife, whose complexion had turned red.

  “You son of a bitch,” she said half under her breath, but he caught it, and so did the people next to her.

  He walked away and went out one of the service doors on the far side of the room where he’d instructed Lawson to take the woman.

  They stood near a fire door at the far end of the deserted corridor, Heather shouting something, but when she spotted Treadwell approaching she stopped.

  “You can leave us now, Duke,” Treadwell said, and the big security officer nodded and left.

  “Okay, you prick, the next move is yours,” she said. “What’ll it be?”

  “May I have your cell phone?”

  “I’m not recording anything,” Heather said, but she took out her cell phone and handed it over.

  Treadwell took the battery out, pocketed it, and handed the phone back to her. “You want in on the deal?” he said. “Okay, you’re in.”

  “What exactly are we talking about?”

  “A significant amount of money for you.”

  “Abacus will do that?”

  “Not quite, but something like that and more. No trading anywhere for at least a week, possibly longer. Systems will be fried. The financial world will be on its knees. But Burnham Pike will be standing tall, helping society recover. And trust me, my dear, it’ll be a gold mine.”

  “What about Cassy Levin?”

  “She’s no longer a problem.”

  Heather smiled and shook her head. “You fucking scumbag,” she said, and she raised a middle finger in his face.

  Treadwell grabbed her arm and bulled his way through the fire door, shoving her nearly down the stairs.

  She started to scream, but Treadwell pulled out his father’s .45 and shot her in the middle of the chest at point-blank range.

  “Oh,” she said, and she fell backward, tumbling down the stairs, coming to rest on the first landing, her lifeless eyes open.

  Treadwell cocked his head. “Oh,” he said, mocking her last word.

  He holstered the pistol and went back to the party, where he tossed the white gloves that would hold powder residue from the pistol shot into a trash basket. He knew that the area off the Great Hall was soundproof, so the gunshot wouldn’t have traveled that far. But he wasn’t so sure whether he should apologize to Bernice first, or find Betty and tell her to go fuck herself.

  99

  With traffic it had been nearly five-thirty by the time Chip and Ben got over to Brighton Beach, and after a quick tour of the small Brooklyn neighborhood, the bars already filling up with the afterwork crowd, they drove over to the nearby Best Western on West Thirteenth Street and got a room for the night.

  By midnight they still hadn’t got a hit from the NSA telephone search, and Ben was going crazy.

  “This could take all night, and we still might not come up with anything,” Chip said.

  Ben had been at the window looking down at the parking lot. He turned around. “What else can we do?”

  “Going back to the bank won’t help; even if we got past security again, they’d just call the cops, and I don’t know if Huggard would be able to convince the mayor to let you go a second time.”

  “Someone there had to have hired the Russians to kidnap her for the flash drive, and they’re going to want it back.”

  “Even if you’re suggesting a trade—Cassy’s location for the flash drive—what would be in it for them? Again, they’d simply have you arrested and take the thing.”

  “And we still don’t know what’s on it?” Ben asked.

  “I think it’s some kind of a program, but to do what, I have no way of knowing. The thing is encrypted with an algorithm that could take months to crack. But we’ve got the password taped to the bottom.”

  “If Cassy gave it to Imani and told him to run, then it’s her creation. And she’s damned good.”

  “She’d have to be, to work for a place like Burnham Pike.”

  “Imani gave his life to keep the thing away from them, and they know Cassy doesn’t have it, so there’d be no reason to keep her alive,” Ben said. It was the one thing that kept running aroun
d inside his head, gnawing at his gut.

  “But that’s just the point,” Chip said. “If whatever’s on the flash drive is Cassy’s work, then they’ll need her alive to decrypt it.”

  “So a trade might work.”

  “They need her alive, but there’s no way they’d let her ride off into the sunset with you.”

  “Then we have to find out where they’ve taken her,” Ben said, and he turned back to the window.

  “I have another idea,” Chip said.

  Ben turned back again. “I’m all ears.”

  “It’s dangerous, and you’d definitely need backup.”

  “Get on with it, goddamnit.”

  “You said the bank’s chief of security, the one who made the landline call to a Russian in Manhattan, is a tough guy.”

  “Ex-cop, and pals with the cop who arrested me at LaGuardia.”

  “Maybe you can make a trade with him.”

  “You just said they won’t be willing to trade the flash drive for Cassy.”

  “No, but it’s almost a hundred percent bet that he hired the Russians who snatched her off the street.”

  “You said he called a Russian in Manhattan.”

  “Different guy,” Chip said. “Maybe an intermediary who hired the Brighton Beach people, if that’s who took her.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Maybe he’d be willing to trade Cassy’s location for the flash drive.”

  “That’s it,” Ben said, hopeful for the first time since they’d left Washington.

  “And that’s why you’d need some muscle to back you up.”

  “Hardy’s an ex-cop, so the police wouldn’t do us any good. Anyway, I have my own idea.”

  “Listen to me for a second, would you?” Chip said. “I’m not talking New York cops, I’m talking the FBI.”

  “Why the hell would the Bureau want to get involved?”

  “Think it out. Cassy works for the largest or maybe second largest investment bank in the country. She works in cybersecurity. She developed some program which she recorded on a flash drive, and yet she probably didn’t tell anyone in management. She and her friend just took off running with it.”